


His Butler: Clawed

by Laikin394



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14123217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laikin394/pseuds/Laikin394
Summary: What if Grell reached them a moment later to stop Claude?





	1. Chapter 1

“Please, Claude, you can never leave my side. Not you.” The boy crawls to him. He is shaking. His arms wobble with exhaustion but he stubbornly pushes his body forward. “Never,” Alois repeats, throwing his head back. His face is pale. Beads of sweat on his forehead gleam in the cold moonlight. He grasps the fabric of Claude's trousers, fisting it as he tries to pull himself upwards. He is too weak for that. Alois wheezes as he manages to straighten up, kneeling as if they swapped roles. 

“Say we will be together, Claude. You- you are all I have. You are my Highness, Claude.”

The demon carefully lowers himself, crouching to be at the eye level with his master. The boy begins to weep harder when Claude cradles his face between his palms. Hot droplets soak into Claude's gloves when he swipes his thumbs across the boy's cheeks. Alois's lips are trembling, but he manages a tiny smile.

“What a thing to say to a butler.”

Despite physical weakness, the boy's soul shines as strong as ever. Claude leans closer, drawn by it's heat. He isn't accustomed to the taste of trust and purest adoration. It makes his skin crawl yet he finds it intriguing. Mixing with the smell of blood, the rawness of emotions is intoxicating. They stir his hunger, but most of all – his curiosity. How potent would they get? Alois's soul wouldn't be his first choice of a meal, but it's right here, ripe and taunting him with a promise of new flavor. Squeeze the boy's head a little tighter – and he would enjoy a burst of it on his tongue. His mouth waters at the idea. The dull ache of hunger grows stronger, making it difficult to find a reason to reject what is offered so freely. Well, then.

Alois doesn't make a sound. His mouth falls open in a silent surprise .  The gentle pressure on his temples turns into a death grip, the instant pain paralysing him. Claude would need just a fracture of a second to finish his task, but he is interrupted. Something cuts into his right shoulder and his arm drops down. Claude ducks – but not fast enough. He escapes most of the impact, though his cheek is sliced open. Claude drops the boy, bolting upright before Alois's body hits the ground.

“Ah-ah, darling,” the red-headed creature purrs, launching at Claude with a chainsaw. “I'm afraid I must cut the fun short.”

Claude steps to the side, spinning on his heels. The Reaper flies past and Claude catches him by his coat. He uses it to lift him up and toss his opponent away.

“Ow, what is it with the butlers who act like brutes?” In a whirl of red, the Reaper is back on his feet. 

“I wouldn't know, I'm afraid.”

The Reaper grins, showing off his sharpened teeth. 

“I'm Grell, sweetie.” Claude doesn't take his eyes off the chainsaw. Catching the direction of his stare, the redhead starts it. “I see you like it when a man is endowed. I've shown you my instrument, now you show me yours.”

Claude makes the first move. He cuts the distance between them in two leaps, approaching the Reaper from the left to stay away from his peculiar scythe. Claude jabs him behind the knee with the tip of his shoe, simultaneously grasping his locks.

“No, not the hair, not my hair!”

The Reaper shrieks when Claude wraps his stupidly long strands around his forearm, giving them a tug.

“Shut up.” The creature whines, but another pull convinces him to obey. “Drop it.”

“Da-arling, please, I've worked so hard on- Ee!” A punch between his shoulder blades cuts the rest of the sentence. The Reaper drops his chainsaw. “We need to develop rules for this game. I enjoy a bit of force every now and then... Rude!” Claude drags him out of reach from his weapon. “Ow, ow! Fine, I surrender. I am at your mercy. Do as you will. Or do me as Will.” The Reaper giggles.

Claude takes him away from the clearance.

“You're not of a talkative kind, honey? That's right, your mouth could-”

Claude shoves the Reaper face-first into the tree. He cannot lethally harm him, but the crack of the bones of his jaw against the trunk is most satisfying. 

Then, Claude picks up a faint rustle behind him. He turns to face a new danger, pushing the Reaper forward to shield himself.

It's only Hannah. She limps to him, holding her hands over her stomach. She's doing a poor job of hiding the gash across it. It oozes blood onto her hands and apron. 

“Claude...” 

“Where have you been?” he asks. Hannah coughs, covering her mouth a moment too late and adding more blood to her already soaked hand.

“No, where were you when my master - needed protection?”

“Obviously, doing your job,” Claude snarls. “Useless twat. You're supposed to be a maid, so clean up after yourself.” He shows the Reaper at her.

“Oi. Do not manhandle me!”

Hannah catches the Reaper by his throat. In a fluid move, her fingers slide higher. She jerks his head up and to the side, snapping it off his neck.

“Yes, that will quieten him for a minute of two before you continue your cat fight.”

“Master... Where is my master?” Hannah collapses to her knees. Claude takes a step back when she reaches out to him.

“ _Your_ master, Hannah? The boy has never been yours.”

“Claude! What have you?..”

She watches him pull his glove off. 

“Huh.”

Claude spreads his fingers and then curls them into a fist. The crisp lines of the contract mark on the back of his hand have not faded.

“I was interrupted. Now excuse me, I have an unfinished business to attend to.”

“Claude!” He doesn't turn around at her shriek. “Claude, if you dare touch him, I swear...”

“You will what, Hannah?” he shoots her a glance over his shoulder. “Spit blood and pointless threats at me? Tsch.”

Alois is laying on his side, his limbs spread out. Claude gives him a shove with his boot, pushing the boy onto his back. His head lolls to the side. The boy's hair is dark with blood; he must have landed on a stone to cut his head open. 

Alois appears deceivingly lifeless, yet still clings to his world. Nothing with him goes as planned. This would be the only thing special about the boy. Why does Hannah lust after him so much? 

Claude regards the small frame at his feet. The rush of thirst is gone. 

Humans truly are pathetic and tiresome. A day or two won't make a difference.

He throws the boy over his shoulder. Alois's limp body sways with each step as Claude starts walking towards the Trancy manor. He has to stop and adjust his hold on the boy, pressing him to his chest with one arm behind his back and the other one hooked under his legs. This way he can move faster.

He reaches the manor before midnight.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The doors swing open before him. Thompson meets Claude on the doorstep, two of his brothers peeking over his shoulders. They move to the side allowing Claude to step in and light his way as he walks through the hall.

“Clean,” Claude orders. One of the triplet stays behind. The older demon knows he's leaving a trail of blood – he can sense it trickle down his arm. It could be the boy's or his own. He loathes being sloppy.

“Bring a basin of water.”

Again, no questions asked. Claude deposits Alois onto the love seat in the back of the dining room. His remaining wordless companion looks the boy over before rushing to help the butler out of his tailcoat. The shirt sticks to Claude's side, drenched through.

“Fetch some bandages.” Canterbury stares at him. “A clean cloth will do.”

Claude clenches his teeth, peeling the fabric off the cut in his shoulder. It isn't as deep as he expected, but it'll take weeks to heal; marks left by the death scythe are troublesome. 

The triplets re-appear in the room, walking in sync. Two of them approach the table, leaving a bowl of water and the pile of linen before stepping back. Claude can hear them fidget.

“What it it?”

“It's miss Hannah-” Thompson says.

“-she's coming,” his brother speaks up.

“We must meet her.”

“And help her,” Timber points out.

Claude doesn't acknowledge their dialogue. He discards his shirt and folds his glasses to toss them onto the table. He cleans his face first, pressing the dampened cloth to it. The cut on his cheek stings.

Claude dunks the cloth into the bowl of water. It turns pink. Most of blood isn't his. He squeezes the excess water out and dabs the wound on his shoulder. The itching pain it in intensifies. Claude rips a dry patch of cotton in two strips and wraps them over the cut. He has to use his teeth to secure it. His shoulder throbs in protest, but he's satisfied with the result. Claude stands up to wipe away the half-dry swirls of blood on his torso.

For whatever reason, the triplets bring Hannah to the dining room as well. She practically hangs on their shoulders.

“Long time no see,” Claude sneers.

Hannah raises her head. She might have come up with a decent response, but she notices Alois and her single eye waters.

“Help-”

“-miss Hannah-”

“-get better.”

The triplets lay her on the table before Claude. Timber holds her head as his brothers lower her down and adjust her clothes. She resembles a grotesque meal, put on display if one could work up an appetite for that. Three pairs of identical demon eyes set on Claude.

“I'll need more water, linen and a sharp needle with some thread.”

The triplets nod in unison and hurry away.

“Get better. Did you hear that, Hannah?” She looks dirtier than she were in the forest. There are new cuts on her arms and neck, but not as gruesome as the gash in her stomach. “Have you lost all of your instincts to allow a Reaper to get so close?”

“Master's... order.”

“Oh?” Claude raises his brows. “Did he also order for you to be cut to the bone? I hope you didn't bring that vermin here, did you?”

He sticks his fingers in the wound. Hannah screams. Claude covers her mouth over with his right hand.

“Hush, now. I'm just checking if the Reaper managed to slice your spine. Presuming you had one.”

Hannah claws at his arm. Claude withdraws his fingers with a smirk. He licks up his digits, but there is no taste.

Claude begins working on the buttons of her gown from the collar down. He gets bored quickly and tears in down, the staccato of buttons clicking on the floor accompanying Hannah's grunt. She attempts to cover herself, throwing her arm across her breasts. She keens. The pain the movement brings must be excruciating.

“Really? You think your arguable... charms are of any interest to me?” Hannah turns away. “Be still.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Patch you up.”

“No. I mean,” she gulps, “with master.”

“I have not yet decided.”

Hannah nods. Her minions bring what was requested.

“Do you want them to hold you in place?”

The demoness shakes her head slowly.

“Fine. Scream if you want.”

Claude makes an effort to wipe the blood away to see what he has to work with, but there's too much of it. He splashes Hannah's stomach with water, dumping the whole bowl over her middle. She grimaces, but holds back her howling.

It's messy. The skin on edges of the wound is flappy and uneven, pieces of it missing entirely. He could trim them to close it properly. If he cared for the wound to heal and scar not too badly afterwards. Claude doesn't. He just requires Hannah to be able to walk around without her intestines showing. He slides the thread into the ear of the needle. Pinching the slippery skin on both sides of the cut, Claude pushes the needle through. He ties a knot, breaks the thread and repeats it all over. Hannah's breathing quickens. She begins panting. Despite her attempts to stay quiet, grunts of discomfort occasionally drop from her lips.

“Claude,” she calls. He's almost done when she distracts him. He shifts her eyes to Hannah's face. “Give him to me.” Claude purses his lips, finishing the last stitch over the curve of her breast. “Please.”

“You can have his body after I consume him.”

“But you already have.” She grips his hand. Claude tries to shake it off, but she holds on faster. “Don't you feel it?”

“The boy is alive.”

“You don't understand.”

“You are not making any sense.”

“At least... be kind to him.”

“You are begging for your mouth to be sewn shut, aren't you? Or did the souls you host poison the little of wit that was there to begin with?” Claude pinches her cheeks, making her lips pucker up. The triplets shift behind him, stepping in enough for him to sense the threat of their presence. “I will not answer to a sheath.”

One of the younger demons touches his elbow. Claude snatches his arm back with a grunt. This is getting progressively stupid.

Claude walks up to the tiny couch scooping the boy back into his arms. He could leave Alois there, but it's exactly what Hannah wants. He intends to make no compromises with her. He makes his way to the master bedroom, putting Alois on top of the tasteless lilac duvet. 

Claude lowers himself on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and the boys leg slips down, coming in touch with Claude's hip. He wraps his fingers around the slim calf to maneuver the boy's leg back against the other one.

Alois's flesh is warm. Just to make sure he isn't mistaken, Claude glides his fingers up the smooth thigh, avoiding the dirty and bruised spots. Blood, there is so much blood it wraps around the boy in a suffocating cloud. He will probably be able to smell it for days to come, the rich thickness of it filling up each pore of the boy's body on the outside and from within. The scent makes Claude's nose itch, the faint metal aftertaste ever present in his mouth. But it doesn't make him hungry. Not at this moment.

Claude's hand rests on top of the boy's chest. If he spreads his fingers, he can cover most of his ribcage. If he pushes his hand down, he could easily break it. The boy remains motionless, but his heartbeat under Claude's palm is steady and even. Not particularly strong or loud, but it is there.

Claude's fingers wander up, smoothing the hair back from Alois's forehead. He's beautifully still, not a twitch under his eyelids betraying the perfect symmetry of his features. His face is drained of colour, causing the constellation of freckles over the boy's nose and cheeks appear darker. He looks vulnerable. Smaller without his loud words. Helpless.

Claude curls his hand around the boy's neck. His thumb strokes the slightly damp skin of Alois's throat. He could squeeze the life out of him with a precise placement of his digit on his neck. He could end Alois's existence at this very moment or do nothing, watching the life seep out of the boy. Alois is defenseless against him. Just like any other night.

There isn't anyone to stop him. Hannah is too weak to get in the room in time. Claude can kill and move on, embarking on a search of a fresh soul or succumb to a warm slumber someplace quiet. It seems almost too mundane. Like another chore, the idea lacks in elegance. He has done it too many times and far too many days were spent in tranquil uneventful nothing. Claude rises. He gives Alois another look. The dinner is served, yet his instincts prompt him nothing.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Claude frowns. He has no reason to kill him, but equally there is no reason to spare the boy. Such indecisiveness is odd. However, something else is off. Claude concentrates to grasp the eluding thought. The Reaper isn't here, he realizes. Hannah may be stupid enough not to sense them, but Claude has never failed to detect their presence. He inhales deeply, straining his ears. There is nothing but ordinary smells of night air, masked by Alois's blood. If the boy was meant to die, the red-haired Reaper or his kin would be lurking around, the sweet odor of decay clinging to their skin. Claude doesn't believe in destiny, but he would be a fool not to trust the death itself.

He begins undressing the boy. Patches of dry blood adhere the shirt to Alois's skin and Claude scowls. He could rip it off, but he doesn't want to deal with the stitches; he has done his share of sewing today. 

Claude leaves the room, heading to the boy's study. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and makes a detour to his room, choosing a shirt to put on. His part isn't played to the end, thus he slips back into the role of a butler. His image must be impeccable.

Claude hears the triplets murmur, but no one comes to check on him. He gathers his supplies and returns to Alois's bedroom. Ideally, he should have washed the boy. Humans are so easy to cut apart, yet they take so much time to be pieced together. The task is challenging – the cut in his stomach shouldn't get wet – but not impossible. For now, cleaning most of the caked up blood will suffice.

Claude starts with the simple part. He removes Alois's boots, ruined by deep scratches in the leather. The socks and shorts follow. Claude picks up a pair of scissors and cuts around the fabric of the shirt that stuck to the boy's skin. He will have to soak it off. Perhaps, drawing a bath isn't such a bad idea.

He instantly knows when Alois is awake. His breathing changes, the shallow inhales ceasing. Claude finishes with the shirt and puts the scissors away, only then shifting to meet Alois's eyes. He vaguely wonders how much the boy can see in the dark. His pupils are blown out, yet when Claude leans closer, Alois's eyes follow him. 

Alois's body begins to tremble. His lips part. Claude expects him to return where they left off and give voice to a scream that would be the last noise he'd make.

Alois gulps the air as if he surfaced from water, but remains quiet. Claude sees the strain in his limbs. Alois is terrified, the carotid budging and throbbing on his neck in with the mad flutter of his pulse. The boy looks like he could bolt upright at any moment. Perhaps, he knows running is futile. Claude dampens the cloth. He reaches out to the boy and Alois snaps out of his trace.

“No!” he probably intended to shout, but the word comes out hoarse. “No, no, no, no! Don't touch me!”

Alois wheezes. He starts coughing, as if the raspy words scratched his throat. Claude gets up to pour him a glass of water. He ignores Alois's thrashing and lifts him up, supporting the back of his head as he drinks. Alois coughs again. Claude takes the glass away, waiting for it to pass before pressing it firmly back to his lips. The boy pushes his hand away, his fingers icy cold despite the heated skin at the back of his neck. His forehead is damp with perspiration. 

Claude makes another attempt to clean his wounds. Alois bring his hands down, shielding his middle. He hisses, but keeps them in place.

“No,” he repeats through gritted teeth. “ 'Ts an order.”

Claude smirks. Alois's eyes roll back in his head as he slips into unconsciousness. An order, is it? Astounding arrogance. Claude checks that the bleeding has indeed stopped and leaves the boy be. He lights the fireplace, stretching his legs and joining his fingertips in front of his face. He watches Alois. He waits. 

He hears steps behind the door. They die away quickly, but he knows they are no longer alone. Hannah resumes her pacing, not troubling herself with muting the sound of her feet on the carpet. She doesn't try to get inside. The noise that follows makes him think she's leaning against the door, sliding down. Claude does nothing about it.

When the first pale rays peek into the room, he gets up to close the curtains. Alois stirs.

“Claude.” The demon moves closer. Alois's eyes glisten. His face is flushed. Claude presses the back of his hand to the side of the boy's neck. His skin is hot. “Am I dead?”

“No.”

Claude wonders if Alois's head suffered more damage than he thought. He slurs the words but his speech is comprehensive. In any event, this makes for a bizarre notion of afterlife.

“Huh.” Alois closes his eyes. “Cou'nt finish a simple task.”

Alois drifts between shallow sleep and unconsciousness. Claude checks on him in an hour and he doesn't have to touch the boy to see he's feverish. He needs to be cooled down. Claude walks to the door, pulling it open.

"Bring water for the bath." He doesn't bother to fake a look of surprise upon seeing Hannah. She fusses to get up, moving awkwardly. She leans to her left, supporting herself against the wall. "Hopefully you can manage that before the end of the day."

"Is he awake? Is he well? Can I..."

Claude turns his back on her, cutting off the stupid blabbering. Several minutes later Hannah timidly knocks on the door. Triplets obviously helped her with the task, leaving three buckets of steaming water at the doorstep.

"Do you need more?"

"Should be enough."

"Claude..."

"Hannah?" he mimics hes soft-spoken voice but her name comes out harsh, almost a warning. She doesn't continue with whatever she intended to ask him.

He fills the copper tub so that only the shiny bottom of it is covered. Claude contemplates leaving Alois unconscious - that would make him a lot more agreeable - but then shakes the boy awake by his shoulder. If the blow to his head was too strong, sleep would do him more harm.

Alois immediately tenses up. He breathes through his nose, quick exhales of air nothing short of a panic. Claude decides he likes it.

"If you would just hold onto my neck," he instructs, picking the boy up. Alois whimpers but his arms remain limp as he is lifted and carried to the bathroom. Once in a tub, the boy grips its edges with such a force, his knuckles crack.

"I had not intention of drowning you, master," Claude says. Alois jerks at the sound of his voice, but doesn't look at him. "There isn't enough water to do so."

Alois doesn't appreciate the humour. He shifts his eyes, staring at his legs. They are covered with raised scratches and colored with bruises, his knees suffering most of it. The water indeed comes up to his mid-thigh. Alois gulps.

He pointedly stares at the wall across the tub when Claude begins washing him. The boy doesn't complain about the water being too cold or Claude's soapy hands causing him any discomfort. He scowls several times, his eyes crinkling up as if he was holding back the tears. It sparks a little curiosity in Claude. He has anticipated a completely different behavior, but this unexpected quietness is delightful. He can sense the bubbling of emotions just under the surface. They break through when he touches the boy's face.

“No!” Alois shouts. He lets go of the edges of the tub and smacks Claude's forearms. “Don't touch me.”

“Master...”

“No more!”

Alois thrashes and wiggles, trying to get away. His feet slip against the bottom of the tub and he jerks back instinctively. He nearly hits his head on the tub's edge. Claude steadies him, cradling the back of his neck. Alois shudders.

“I will just wash your hair and put you back in bed. No more touching after that.”

Alois purses his lips. His face loses some of that haunted look, but his effort he puts into tolerating the touch is visible. Claude takes pleasure in soaping up the boy's hear, purposefully feeling around his scalp. The cut to the left of his head is a shallow one. His hair won't need a trim around it – it cleaned easily. 

By the time he's finished, Alois looks miserable. Claude slowly pats him dry, taking great care to not to press too hard. This time the boy does not fight being picked up and wraps his arms around the demon's neck. He elicits several dry sobs as he's carried back to the bedroom. Alois locks his fingers behind Claude's neck when he's being lowered down. Claude tries once more, but Alois whimpers and holds onto him.

"Master?"

Alois pushes his face in the crook of Claude's neck. It takes a few ragged breaths for the tears to finally come. The boy keens and shakes. Scalding hot droplets trickle behind Claude's collar, and the shirt over his shoulder soon becomes soaked through, the damp patch continuing to grow larger. As it's not the shoulder the Reaper injured, Claude allows it. 

Claude sits down on the bed when he realizes it will take a while. He doesn't know why Alois is crying, but he's weary of ungracious sounds he makes. The boy curls into a ball in his lap. Not the wisest decision considering the fresh wound in his stomach. Claude supports him in his arms. He inhales the scent of his skin, masked by the soap and, most of all, desperation. It's an exquisite concoction. Familiar. Almost nostalgic.

"It's so cold in here. And dark."

"Would you like me to light the fireplace?" Claude tries to get up, but Alois's fingers dig into his shoulders. He grits his teeth as pain shoots through the injured one, even his fingertips buzzing with the numb ache that spreads from his arm.

"No! Don't go. It's... It's okay when you are here." Alois fumbles with the collar of Claude's shirt, smoothing it out. He shivers, his raising up with goosebumps. He doesn't object when Claude pries his arms off and puts him on the bed.

Alois doesn't say anything else. Claude bandages his middle, nearly tucking the loose end of cheesecloth under the previous layer. He wouldn't want for it to come undone and waste time fixing it.

"We can mend it, right, Claude?"

"Yes, you will heal quickly."

"No, I didn't mean that." Alois grabs his hand. He holds it between his palms bringing it over to his chest. His heart beat doesn't suggest he's agitated, but his eyes are moist once more. "Us. We can fix that, right?"

"Us?"

"Fine. Pretend all you want." Alois sighs. "Will you stay?"

"Naturally. Where else would I go?"

"Good."

Alois tosses and turns in bed, his sighs becoming more and more dramatic.

“I'm still cold.”

“Should I procure another blanket?”

“Maybe.”

Claude brings the covers and wraps them around the boy to preserve heat. Alois whiggles under them. He throws them off a moment later.

“They are too heavy, I'll suffocate under the weight.” He huffs. Then, he throws the covers off his upper body and pats the bed to his right. “Come. I'm sure you could keep me warm.” He pauses and adds. “Please.”

Claude stretches on the matress beside him. Alois scoots over, tucking himself at the demon's side. His fingers slip between the buttons of Claude's shirt. They are chilly indeed. Claude pulls the blanket over Alois's shoulders. The boy presses his forehead against Claude's shoulder and drifts off to sleep. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. 

Alois stirs awake with a grunt. He turns onto his back, taking several slow breaths.

“Claude?” His fingers cover his butler's hand but quickly withdraw. “Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

“I can't sleep either. It just hurts. Everything hurts.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Such a meaningless thing, but that's what he is supposed to say to stop Alois from complaining. “It'll get better soon.”

“When? Can you make it better now?”

Claude contemplates the idea. He props himself on his elbow, leaning over the boy. When his mouth covers Alois's, the boy's body freezes. It goes limp a moment later, soft, pliable and eager to be taken over. It requires only the lightest swipe of a tongue for Alois's lips to part. They are chapped and rough, imperfect and flawed like everything about him. 

The boy is both timid and impatient, lacking skill to coax a pleasurable response. Yet, when Claude swallows his sigh, he relishes the heat of passion that surges from him. It's not quite the physical desire, though it is faintly present, but rather a tang of something wicked and utterly foreign. Something Claude hasn't experienced before and thus is unable to categorise. It is an acquired taste, a non-conventional one – but it makes him curious.

Alois shares his emotion generously, allowing it grow in intensity. He permits his mouth to be invaded by Claude's tongue, slowly learning to mimic the movements. He adjusts to the unhurried pace, their lips gliding with more ease. The boy's soft little mouth makes noises of incepient hunger. Claude pulls away before he gets too greedy. Alois cranes his neck, refusing to let go. He whimpers when his wish to prolongue the contact is not obliged. 

“Why did you do that?” His head falls back onto his pillow. Even in the dark, Alois refuses to look at Claude. It appers as if his question was directed at the ceiling.

“Human saliva contains substances capable of relieving pain.”

“You are not human.”

“But you are. A rush of excitement may trick your brain into blocking unpleasant sensations and concentrate on different stimuli.”

“This sounds awfully dull.”

“It's simple science of human reaction.”

“That's a preposterous way to talk about kissing, Claude.” Alois clicks his tongue. His voice indicates displeasure, but his fingers seek out Claude's hand, stroking over his knuckles. “Claude?”

“Yes?”

“Will you... Will it happen again?” Alois clears his throat. “Will you- try to kill me again?”

The answer is so obvious there is hardly a need to ask.

“Yes.”

Alois's nails dig into Claude's hand.

“When?”

“I do not know.”

“When?!”

“When the time is right.”

“Oh, there is the _right_ time for it, is there, Claude?” The boy hisses. His nails break the skin, sinking deeper as if he wanted to claw at it down to the bone. “Get out. Get out of my bed!” He shoves the demon away with surprising strength. “Where do you think you are going? Stay right here. I need to know where you are.” Alois pants with rage. His anger is pure, unmarred by fear or doubt. It washes over Claude, making the back of his neck tingle. “You will not attempt to kill me, directly, with the help of others or by any means until our contract terminates. Do you hear me? Do you understand?! It's a bloody order!”

“Hasn't our contract been completed? You no longer wish to possess Ciel Phantomhive. Your desires have changed.”

“Shut up!” Alois tosses a pillow at Claude. The demon catches it before it hits his face. “Ah! Damn it.” The boy doubles over, wrapping his arms around his middle. Despite his display of weakness, Alois's eyes glisten with intensity for vengeance Claude has not witnessed in a while. “What do _you_ know of my desires?”

“Oh, but I...”

“Quiet! I did not allow you to speak. Or move, for that matter. I want you to stay silent and immobile, until told otherwise.That also is an order, if you are too dense to figure it on your own!”

Alois waits a moment. Claude doesn't make a sound. The boy throws another pillow at him. It smacks the side of the demon's head and then his shoulder before landing on the floor. 

“Serves you right!”

Alois turns away, throwing the covers over to shield himself. The top of the blanket shakes, but it is too thick. It blocks any sound that would give away his cries.

If Claude was permitted to move, he would smile.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Short-lasting sleep doesn't seem to put Alois in any better of a mood. He pointedly avoids looking at Claude, turning the other way. He slides off the bed and pulls the duvet off, draping it around his shoulders. Alois ducks out of sight. When he straightens, he is holding the chamber pot in his outstretched arm. The boy wordlessly makes his way to the bathroom. His steps are slow despite his face contorted with loathing towards the need to carry the thing. He stops frequently, pulling the duvet back around his shoulders. Claude thinks it's more of a show and the actual reasons for pausing midway is the discomfort of his injuries. An admirable attempt to create an illusion of power, when his fragile body is showing weakness.

Alois emerges from the bathroom looking quite displeased. The shadows under his eyes add years to his face, just like the creases on the sides of his pursed lips. He patters to the window, walking around Claude without sparing him a glance. The duvet rustles on the carpet behind him like eccentric plume. Alois grabs the heavy curtains, tugging them to the side. He's unsuccessful. He grunts and abandons the idea, leaving only a slim gap between them for the light to peek through.

“What are you looking at?” he spits. Alois climbs on the bed, kneeling to be at the same level with his butler. He frowns. “What happened to your face?”

He has either forgotten he forbade Claude to speak or his words are an attempt to trick him into breaking the order. The boy sighs. He raises his hand, his fingertips ghosting over Claude's cheek. “Does it hurt?” Alois hesitates for another moment. Then, he brings his thumb down, poking at the cut the Reaper left on Claude's face. “I do hope so.”

Alois loses interest just as quickly. He crawls to the middle of the bed and sprawls on it, arms stretched out and his nudity ignored.

“What am I supposed to do now, Claude? What do I do with all of this?”

The boy turns his head towards his butler, but his eyes are focused on his own hand. He flexes his fingers, curling them towards his palm one by one and straightening all of them at once.

“Do you remember my dearest papa, Claude? I'm certain you had the displeasure of meeting him before paying the last respects to his corpse. He kept quite a collection. His dolls, he would call us.” Alois's eyes dart to Claude, checking his reaction. He squeezes his hands into fists.

“He would say we are his pride. That he would hate for us to break. And yet he wouldn't stop doing things until one of us would snap.”

The boy shifts his eyes to Claude, unblinking.

“Is that what you'd like to be, Claude? A puppet? A silent slave to my wishes? Or maybe a decoration for my room, becoming covered in dust as I live the rest of my years in peace?”

Alois turns to stare at the ceiling. The anger drains out of him, his stare turning blank and his voice lifeless.

“I am sick of looking at you and that ugly scar on your face. Go away. But do not leave the grounds. And do not disturb me unannounced.”

Claude resists the temptation to stretch and crack his bones as the previous order is canceled. He bows – the gesture wasted on his oblivious master – and leaves the room, shutting the door behind himself without a sound.

He still has his nominal duties to follow. Hannah abandoned her post behind the master bedroom doors, nothing betraying her presence there – the triplets have done an excellent job cleaning up. Claude walks to the kitchen. It's unlikely for Alois to grow hungry any soon, but a butler should foresee all outcomes. Well past noon he returns to the boy's room. Alois isn't asleep.

“What is it you want?”

“To check your health. Should the wound show signs of festering, I will send for a doctor.”

Alois clicks his tongue. He doesn't order him not to proceed, so Claude interprets it as a sign of agreement.

Deja vu tickles his senses as he kneels before the boy. Alois's body is stiff. He holds himself awkwardly as he attempts to bring himself in an upright position. Yet, he ignores a helping hand, spending minutes on clumsy movements to straighten on the bed. He grits his teeth, clenching the sheets in his fists when he's finally sitting. He sways from side to site.

“I am ready,” he announces, raising his chin. Such a combination of pride and vulnerability.

Everything is ridiculously similar to how it was the day before - the raised swollen edges of the cut on Alois's stomach. The lingering faint smell of blood. At any point now Alois could ask if it stirs his hunger, but he doesn't. Claude put the bandages in place.

“Dress me.” Alois doesn't look at him, choosing to stare into the space over Claude's right shoulder. “I'm thirsty. And I would like to come downstairs for a meal.”

“Is this wise? I could serve you food here, as an exception.”

“I'm not an invalid to take food in bed. I said dress me. Don't make me wait.”

Claude pulls the clothes from the chest of drawers.

“What is this? I don't want this shirt. This colour looks like blood too much.”

Alois isn't satisfied with any colour. He refuses to wear white or blue or green, finding reasoning against each of them. If this was meant to test Claude's patience, he should have known better than that.

“How about this one?”

Alois squints.

“Is it the shirt I wore to my dearest father's funeral?”

“Indeed.”

“Good. Bring it over. Suits the occasion.”

The routine is broken not only by his choice to wear black. Alois doesn't try to disrupt the process of being dressed. He remains still, allow his limbs to be pushed through the sleeves and leg holes of his shorts. It could be an omen for an upcoming tantrum.

“All ready, Your Highness.”

A sharp ring of a slap accompanies Claude's words. His cheek burns. It caught him somewhat off-guard. Not that the boy would issue a warning.

“Don't you dare... After what I said, after what you've done...” Alois breaks himself off, his face suddenly becoming serene. “Never call me that again, Claude.”

The mask of indifference is so alien on the boy's face. Its edges are visible, lined by hurt and disappointment. Claude wants to pick at them and lift it off, gazing deeper down to see what it is that makes Alois flawed but still unbroken.

Claude takes the hairbrush to his hair. The boy shivers at the touch, but obviously forces himself to endure the procedure. Claude pinches the fair locks between his fingers, gradually working up with a brush to avoid pulling or tangling. He slides the hair between his digits, parting it and pushing back the longer strands. His gloved hands cannot appreciate the softness of the hair, but it is still worth doing to prolong the boy's discomfort.

"Would you like me to carry you, master?"

"No. I can walk." The declaration does not prevent Alois from leaning against Claude's shoulder as he stands up.

Calling it walking would be a stretch. Alois wobbles even bracing himself against the wall. He trips over his own legs, dragging them with a speed that would make snail envious. It gets on the nerves. When Claude wraps his arm around Alois's shoulders, the boy jerks them to throw it off.

"I don't need your help!"

"Any particular reason why you'd reject it?"

Alois looks up at him. His nostrils flare. Red-rimmed eyes on the pale face are strikingly animated.

"Your touch sickens me."

The boy turns away, continuing his stubborn descent to the dining room. Claude wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. He has forgotten how acidic the burn of hatred could be. Except, of course, that it's not just it. The affection balances out the taste, the longing for being comforted by Claude in particular still coming through. It's illogical for Alois to shy from a touch he clearly craves. Claude doesn't object to complications.

Alois eventually makes it to his seat. The sweat on his face and the shaking of his fingers he attempts to hide under the table cloth must have justified all the effort for him.

"What is today's poison of choice?" Alois asks. The half-managed wit doesn't become him. It makes him look even more like a child. Claude pours water into the glass, diluting the wine.

"Merlot. From Earl Tracy's collection. I could check the year, if you prefer to know it."

"I don't care." Alois takes a careful sip, the glass clacking against his teeth. He quickly lowers it, avoiding any spill by luck. "Is it a good idea to get me drunk?"

"It's diluted enough not to get you inebriated. However, it is believed that red wine contains..."

Alois raises his hand, cutting him off.

"Do not bore me with another lecture. Just serve me my dinner."

"It is lunch time, my lord."

Alois grits his teeth. However, he masters his expression and his voice delivers the reply in a monotone voice, almost an echo of his butler’s.

"Then serve me lunch, Claude. _Please_."

Claude brings in the tray with food. Alois shows little interest in his cooking, but starts with plain vegetable broth. Surprisingly sound choice.

Claude tucks a napkin behind the boy's collar, smoothing it down his chest and earning himself another wince of displeasure. Black on white, only reversed, they are the opposites of each other.

Alois's hand trembles. He spills half of its contents by the time he is able to raise it to his lips. It's pitiful to watch. Even more when the next attempt results in him sloshing the soup onto the tablecloth.

"Allow me," Claude offers softly. Alois looks like he's going to argue. The demon swiftly presses the spoon to his lips. He nudges it against the boy's mouth when he refuses to open up.

Alois parts his lips, hardly wide enough for the spoon to be pushed in. Claude slides it forward, scraping against the boy's teeth and tilts it upward. Alois looks at him, holding the broth in his mouth for some time before swallowing.

Claude feeds him another spoonful, going as far as to blow on the fluid before offering it to Alois. His attempts at kindness are met with the same resistance. Claude touches the boy's chin, lightly pushing it up and prompting him to swallow some more. As a reward, he gently strokes his thumb over Alois's cheek.

"Stop, stop! I can't do this!" Alois slaps his hand away. The spoon rattles, landing on the food tray.

"Nonsense. Of course you can. It is important you eat..."

"To what, plump up for you, Claude?" Alois flips the plate over. Both of them watch the pale yellow liquid soak into previously crisp cotton of the table cloth. "This, all of this is maddening! I hate it."

"What precisely is not to your liking, master?"

"What _is_ to my liking, rather.” Alois chuckles humorlessly. He yanks the napkin off his neck, tossing it onto the floor. “Why did you try to kill me, Claude?"

This could be answered in so many ways. There wasn't a single reason that prevailed at the moment or an elaborately thought out plan. Claude chooses the most obvious one.

"Because I could."

Alois scowls.

"How dull. Why did you spare me then? Why did you stick around, if I'm no longer appealing enough to eat?"

Claude doesn't trouble himself to ponder over that one.

"Because I could."

"Ha. So we'll just go on, pretending like nothing happened? Like you are not choosing a more suitable time to crush my head?”

Alois pushes his chin forward, waiting for Claude to argue.

“I knew it. You don't even bother to hide it. I don't want this anymore. I don't want to be a pig, petted by a butcher who holds a knife in his other hand.”

“How would you like it to be, master? I have never hidden my true nature.”

“Oh no. You just spun lie after lie, making me believe things that weren't even there. Do you even need my soul to survive?” Alois gulps the rest of the wine. He throws the glass at Claude, missing him but an inch. “Answer me!”

“I do not.”

Alois covers his face with his hands. He sits in silence. When he looks back up, his face is blank.

“I relieve you of the duties of my butler. I realize our contract would still be effective, but I do not want to see you on a daily basis. You may not leave the manor or interfere with other servants' business. And you cannot do anything to disrupt mine. Understood?”

“Yes, master.”

“And Claude?”

“Yes.”

“This is an order.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Something shifts. The air of the mansion is saturated with it, although the change exercises itself in subtle things. The corridors become quieter – Claude hasn't seen Alois run through them since the incident. They are not disturbed by an echo of his laughter, either the hysterical pitched giggles or the genuine chuckling. Alois orders Hannah to close off the West wing, robbing more life from the mansion. Or, perhaps it was an attempt to make Claude feel trapped, as he is limited to fewer premises. The aura of stillness creeps from the shadows. It's almost as if the existence of everyone within the walls was muted, just like the colours of Alois's outfits.

The boy still avoids him. That much was to be expected. It's not done in the obvious way, indicating that it's deeper than a simple grudge. Claude isn't concerned. He knows he could have Alois crawl back to him at any moment, should he give the boy an incentive. It's only a matter of time, which is a scarce resource for Alois, but an irrelevant part of equation for the demon. He is relieved for not having to cater to the boy daily.

Hannah takes up on this task with vigor. She pours every ounce of energy she has into serving Alois. There still were screams and clatter of china as her obedience wasn't to the boy's liking, but it went away quickly. Claude doesn't interfere. He chooses to observe and he isn't satisfied with what he sees. Hannah grows more and more confident each day, not only in Alois's presence, but his. She holds her back a little straighter, her eyes no longer downcast. But worst of all is the lingering smirk on her lips that seems to be aimed directly at him.

Certain nights Alois walks around the mansion. More often than not, Hannah follows him. Claude can hear them both from the library. Hannah's lighter, almost sneaking trot suggests that the young earl isn't keen on being followed. It's odd, as Alois has been terrified of the dark for as long as Claude recalls. What goal would we possibly pursue, wandering around? There could be the nightmares, of course, as his impressionable mind replays the evens from the past. But it has to be more potent than that for Alois to take a step into paralyzing darkness.

What makes Claude reconsider his neutrality is the reoccurring arguing. Hannah keeps her voice too low to make out her words. Alois's angry hissing in return clears nothing. Claude would need to put some effort into finding out what was going on. He could inquire the triplets, but with his dismissal and Hannah's growing confidence, they have been staying out of his reach.

One could say that luck is on his side. Except, of course, Claude never relied on such a thing. Not too long after setting his mind to finding out the reason for Alois's nightly walks, Claude hears careful steps. He puts his finger in the book at the faint sound of their approach, but then sets it aside. He waits for them to thump by, before opening the door and sliding into the corridor.

Claude closes the distance between himself and the boy in two silent steps. Yet, despite the odds, Alois senses his presence. He spins on his heels and squeals, startled by Claude's proximity. The candle slips from Alois's fingers. Claude catches it before it hits the floor.

“Claude!” the boy clenches his chest. He makes quite a dramatic picture together with his pristine nightgown and widened eyes. “Why would you do that?!”

“Apologies. I have not realized your intention was to set the carpet on fire.”

“N-no! I... What the heck? Are you following me?”

Claude lowers his hand, the wash of light from the flame pulling out Alois's features from the dark. He is too brash in his responses, almost as if he was trying to hide something. Claude glances past the boy, in the gray shadows stretching down the hall. There is the study and the kitchens, but all food would have already been put away. And then Claude has his answer.

“Indeed, there was no need to do that.”

“Why did you sneak up on me? You know I hate it!”

Alois's tries to slap him. Claude catches his hand, tightening his fingers around the thin wrist. The irritation prickles down his neck. Claude almost wants to shrug it off, but restrains himself. He could ease it by shaking the boy until the insides of his head rattle. Or to squeeze his arm until the bones crush in his grip, poking through the skin and Alois's voice goes hoarse from screaming. Even more tempting, he could strike him across the face, over and over, until the boy's head lolls against his shoulder and his lips are coloured with red and deep blue. But it all feels so simple. Disgust collects at the back of Claude's throat, tasting bitter on the root of his tongue.

“Don't you think you allow yourself too much for a mere butler?” Alois aims to sound condescending, but the throb of his pulse against the demon's fingers doesn't slow down. Is it guilt for being caught or the initial fright?

“I was released from that role, master.” Claude spits the last word out, turning it into a jeer.

“Then why are you touching me? Let go. I can't remember you doing that so liberally before.”

“Neither do I recall you sneaking into the wine cellar during the night.”

Alois snatches his hand back. He isn't intoxicated, not yet at least, but it's a start. He gets addicted so easily. The weakness of the mind is utterly tasteless. Claude scrunches his nose up. Alois groans, rightfully taking that scowl personally.

“You... you pushed me into that!”

“What a peculiar turn of events. I haven't realized the responsibility for your degradation. Me and – perhaps – my sickening touch, if I recall correctly?”

“Stop! Stop saying it... like that! You are twisting my words! Don't just act like- don't look at me like that! Like I disgust you!”

“I must confess your lordship is doing quite a lot of ordering who someone who no longer wanted to see me as a servant.”

“You've changed. Or you have never been who I thought you were, Claude.”

“Ah, apologies. Am I to blame for your thoughts and views as well?”

“You talk to much! Too many stupid questions.”

“Likewise. All I have heard so far were repetitive complaints. Ungrounded, I must admit.”

Alois blinks in surprise. He sticks his finger out in accusation. He pokes it against Claude's chest.

“You think you're so smart, aren't you? That just because you shed the uniform, you get to stand here and bicker with me?”

“If you find the conversation to be unpleasant, I see no sense in keeping it up. Turn around and walk away. Seek comfort or loose yourself in a bottle, whichever was the initial plan.”

“Fine! If I'm so pathetic and predictable, why waste your time standing here?” Alois huffs, lacking patience to put his indignation into proper sentences. “You... You just cannot admit you missed talking to me!”

“Out of everyone in this place, I am hardly the one who enjoys fooling himself.”

“S-shut up!”

“Have I hit a nerve, master?”

“At least I am capable of having those! While you are- unfeeling! And rude!”

“Yet you are still here.”

“You are in my way, Claude. Step aside. Why do you even care if I drink?”

Claude's eyes slide across his face. He returns the candle to Alois, pushing the boy's fingers to curl around it.

“You are right. I do not. Please proceed as you see fit, my lord.”

“Don't- don't you dare turn your back on me! Claude. You can't walk away. Apologise! Claude! Damn you!” He makes a dry sob, but he demon doesn't stop to look back. “Why can't you just apologise?”

The encounter leaves Claude annoyed. He truly cares not for what Alois is up to, but choosing the most artless and vulgar obsession after all that time and effort he gifted to the boy? It is so revoltingly _human_. Even worse, it provokes a reaction from him, where it shouldn't.

“Claude?”

He ignores Hannah's call.

“Claude. What did you do to upset him?”

She's always a moment too late, a word too slow. He wonders how she could ever even make to this age, being utterly sympathetic to her food. If she cannot stomach anything but lust, she could just ask the triplets to do the killing and bring the harvested souls to her.

“Claude, I'm talking to you!”

“This is precisely what I'm trying to ignore.”

Hannah doesn't take the hint. She stands in his path, putting her left arm out to prevent Claude from walking past her.

“I am just trying to be civil here. What did you tell him?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Listen to yourself. Have you lost the last of your wit and pride? Would you actually reduce yourself to begging just to get something me?”

“Do not flatter yourself, demon.”

Claude bares his teeth in a smile. Hannah's eyes fix on his mouth, as if trying to count them to assess the danger.

“So under the facade of a mother hen there still is a will to bite? Choose a target you could measure up to.”

“Is chasing helpless boys the only sizable target you're able to manage?”

“Careful now, Hannah. You wouldn't want to-” he makes a quick move forward, jabbing his fingers into her stomach, “- _poke_ fun at me.”

The touch leaves her gasping. Claude's exaggeratedly polite tone makes his grin spread wider. He is aware Hannah's body hasn't healed. The cut on his shoulder has barely closed, at it was nowhere near the deep split in her midriff. Hannah grabs his hand.

“Claude, please...”

“Oh. Now it's a request, not a demand. What a delightful turn of events. Alright then. I will indulge you. One question, but you,” he shakes her hand off his cuff, “keep your hands to yourself.”

“What did you and master talk about? I must know.”

“We exchanged some pleasantries. I am, however, surprised how quickly you have wiped out basic common sense and all notion of proper behaviour out of his head. But I suppose the wine fumes will quickly fill up the vacant space.”

Hannah straightens. The finest venom of his words fails to make an impression, as she steps even closer, rising on her toes to see eye to eye.

“Claude,” she says with a smile. Unlike his own, it shows some amusement, her full lips curling at the corners. “Are you telling me you have grown to care for the boy?”

“Care for the boy?” Claude echoes. He gently pushes her chin up with his crooked finger. He swipes his thumb over Hannah's lips, removing that cocky smile. Her expression shifts. The concern that lurked in her eyes oozes out, replacing the amusement. She is afraid of his answer, although the mere possibility is atrocious.

Claude pushes harder, feeling the soft flesh of her lip against the pad of his thumb. He closes the distance between them. Hannah parts her lips, her eyes growing wider.

“I would watch that tongue,” Claude whispers. He snatches it between his fingers, yanking it forward. Hannah chokes, striking him the very second Claude releases her. “What a useless appendage.” Claude wipes his slippery fingers in her hair. “Make him stop, Hannah. I do not want the meat spoiled.”

“You are disgusting, Claude. You-”

“That makes two of us.”

“Claude!”

“You are well past the limit of one question. Or my patience. Off with you.”

For once, Hannah listens.

 


	6. Chapter 6

"Enough," Claude says. He watches Alois shrug his words off. The boy pointedly continues pouring the wine into the glass, his arm shaking under the weight of the bottle. He stops only when it's filled to the brim.

"I decide when it's enough."

Alois marches to him. He carelessly drops the bottle onto the floor next to Claude's chair. Luckily, it lands flat on its bottom and doesn't spill it's contents.

"You would not want Hannah to fret about you being up and awake past the bedtime?"

"I am the Earl of Trancy," the boy reminds him. "And I can do what I want."

Claude doesn't respond. He can tell by the glint in Alois's eyes that the boy wants him to. This cheap provocation - him, showing up in the library knowing all too well he would find Claude here and those banal proclamations - is nothing but a prolonged cry for attention.

"Why are you reading?" Alois plucks the book from Claude's hands. He dangles it in the air, but has some common sense to treat it better than the bottle. He closes it and puts it on the armrest. "Haven't you read all the books in the world?"

"I have not had the chance to. But now, thankfully, the opportunity presented itself."

Alois blinks. He squints then and takes a generous sip from his glass, holding Claude's eye. When he speaks again, Claude notes the faint purple tint on the inner rim of his lips. Quite unappealing.

"Are you thanking me for dismissing you just so that you can read that..."

"'Doctor Faustus'", Claude prompts.

"Ah. Were you two friends or speaking of the devil reminds you of home?"

"Such a distasteful remark, Your..."

"Don't!" Alois clenches his fists. A little more pressure and the leg of the glass could burst, precious droplets of blood and wine flying around. Claude would very much like to see that. "I said, don't ever call me that again."

"How should I refer to you then?"

Alois cocks his head to the side, his face lighting up. Claude has no idea what he found amusing about that question.

"Read to me, Cla-aude," he chants, taking another sip.

"It is an original text."

"So?"

"It is composed in the native language of the author - German."

"Hmph." Alois isn't that discouraged. He rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet. Then, he takes several bold steps towards Claude. "Fine. You do not have to read to me, we can just talk."

The boy plants himself into Claude's lap. He wiggles, trying to get comfortable, and it takes all the restraint he's got not to shove him off.

"May I point out there are plenty chairs in the room?"

"You may," Alois giggles. He takes another swing at his glass, now half-empty. "But as I have said, I am the Earl of Trancy, this house and everything in it belongs to me. Thus  _I_ get to decide where _I_ want to sit."

"Delightful," Claude says flatly.

Alois squirms some more trying to turn around to face Claude. His self-preservation skills are far from the best. There isn't a trace of fear on his face, either from acceptance of his inevitable death or short-sighted denial of it. But his general appearance gives away a little more. 

His smile looks forced, as it fails to reach his eyes. His face is thinner, the web of pale-blue veins shining through his skin around his eyes and temples. Claude would say he's weary, although he predicts with a reasonable certainty that the boy has not been doing much for the past weeks.

"Claude," he says, but cuts himself short. He frowns and goes for his glass once more. The wine dribbles on his chin. Alois catches the running liquid with his hand before they mar his shirt.

He gives his fingers a lick. The first one is made on an instinct, just to prevent the scarlet droplets from sliding down his palm and beneath his cuffs. The one to follow is more deliberate, designed to be sensual. It's another cry for attention - clearly less sincere, but a lot more practiced. Certainly, the gesture has worked in the past, and worked quite well. 

It fills Claude with mild repulsion. He has never suggested he would be interested in anything like this.

Alois recognises that his show has not found a grateful spectator. He pushes his digits to Claude's lips. Claude tightens them, refusing to yield to the moist pressure of fingertips, smearing the remains of wine and the boy's saliva across his mouth.

Alois hunches down. His breath washes over Claude's face, its sweetness diluted by the numbing sourness of the wine.

"Claude," the boy repeats, filling in the space between them with hoarse whisper. "Kiss me." He drags the tip of his tongue over Claude's lips. "I'll even say please. If you wish."

Claude expects another assault, but Alois's face hovers over his, as if he truly expects his whim to be obliged.

"No."

"What if... I order you?"

"Have we not been through this? You do not need to attract my attention. I am already your servant."

"Right," Alois drawls sardonically. He takes Claude's spectacles and tries them on. “You will give me everything as long as it's the thing you wish to do.”

“It pains me to hear my master think of me so lowly.” 

“Pains, you say. Like something could hurt you.”

“Perhaps.” Alois's has to tilt his head back to prevent the too-large glasses from sliding off his face. From this angle, his eyes appear larger, although the distortion makes their expression more difficult to interpret. “But I wouldn't want to give his lordship any ideas.”

“Is it because you prefer to be on the giving end of it?”

Alois gasps when Claude throws his arm out. He moves a bit too slow to be capable of escaping any harm had Claude meant it. The boy jerks back and loses his balance. Claude catches him by his forearm, closing his fingers harder then necessary. Alois shudders at the contact. He clenches his teeth as he brings himself upright. He shakes the demon's hand off, his anger exaggerated to a point where it is not believable. Afraid, he's still instinctively afraid of him beneath those silly questions and blatant touches he initiates.

“Have I startled you, master? I did not mean to. I simply wanted to return what is mine.”

This time, when Claude reaches out to take the glasses off his face, Alois doesn't seem alarmed. His racing heart tells a different story. 

“Claude,” Alois begins but his voice loses its power before he has a chance to finish the sentence. Claude plucks his spectacles off the boy's face, folding them and putting them aside. “Why-?”

His lips remain parted. It's clear that there are quite a few of those  _why's_ floating in his head, but none is given voice.

“Pour me another glass, Claude.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? You're still my servant. You must obey me.” Alois frowns when nothing happens. “What is your excuse? That I am too young? Well I'm not a child, Claude. I never got a luxury or that, and since...” 

Alois interrupts himself. His face smooths out as his lips stretch is as grin. 

“Oh. You know what I should do?” Alois giggles, an echo of his old laughter. “Since I am no child indeed. Get married! How would you like to have a mistress, Claude? I would order you to obey her every command too. And she will bear me sons – would you enjoy watching my line continue? Wonderful, wonderful idea. Now, cease that nonsense and do fill me a glass. I must celebrate!” Alois gives him one of his smarmy grins. “Come on, didn't you say you cared not whether I drink myself to death or not?” 

Claude looks at him, unblinking. Then, he tilts to his right, grasping the bottle. He still holds Alois's eyes, putting it to his own lips. 

“What are you doing?” Alois tries to take the bottle from him. He tugs on the cuff of the demon's shirt, not working up the nerve to grab his arm or kick the bottle out of his hand. “Hey, stop it. Claude!” 

The bottom of the bottle gradually rises higher. Claude doesn't swallow nor blow out his cheeks, but the wine seeps pours down, vanishing without a sound.

“What the actual hell, Claude?” Alois's voice jumps a pitch. He does not appear relieved when Claude puts the empty bottle aside. “Uh that's not even-”

Alois shudders when Claude's hands cup his face. He freezes, even more alert when the tips of Claude's fingers carefully tread through his hair. The boy sighs, but clenches his jaw stubbornly as the demon continues to stroke his neck, measured slow touches too uncharacteristic to be enjoyable.

Claude leans in, his face moving closer until he can spot the glint of his own reflection in Alois's eyes. He nudges the boy's lips with his own. 

Alois is the one to close the distance between them. He claims his kiss, all soft lips and needy whimpers. The boy tenses up as the taste of wine hits him. But the initial surprise gives way to eagerness. Alois accepts it, sealing his mouth over Claude's and drinking up the wine that is transfered to his mouth. 

Claude watches him. His other senses make up for what escapes the eye. Alois jerks in his grip when he realizes there's too much. Too much wine, too quick for him to swallow the copious amount. He coughs. His throat spasms in a futile attempt to cut it out, but Claude still forces more fluid into the boy's mouth. 

Alois's hands drum against Claude's forearms, hitting his shoulders, trying to push him away. The boy coughs again, a curious sound between a wheeze and a gurgle. It would be wiser to just hold his breath rather than attempt to gulp air and let the wine trickle into his lungs, choking him further. But it is understandable; a panic always dominates over rational decisions, even if that could result in death. 

Alois's eyes water, as if the extra liquid tried to escape his body in any way possible. The generous beads of warmth tap on Claude's thumbs and he spreads them around the boy's cheeks, his touch gentle despite Alois clawing his arms. Enough fun for tonight.

Claude maneuvers him over the armrest of the chair. Alois coughs up the wine, dry heaving and keening, spitting right onto the carpet and the impeccably shiny wooden floors. Inconsiderate of the others' hard work, as usual. He shakes, drawing in noisy breaths, but slaps Claude's hand away when he tries to stroke down his back.

“You are right, master, I do not concern myself with whether drinking with be the thing that causes you to perish.”

“Is that... all you care t-to explain?” Alois hisses. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his face streaked with purple.

“But I will make sure that however it happens, happens by my choosing.” Alois gets up, lips tight to mask his discomfort. Claude seizes him by his hand. The boy knows better than to fight. “If you are to be poisoned, you will take the venom from my lips. If you are to be broken, it will be by my hand. And at the time of my choosing,” Alois stares at him, so he adds with a little nod, “master.”

“What happened to you, Claude?” The boy's face turns blank, as he puts a visible effort into shutting all emotion out. “I don't understand. Have you... always been like that? Would sharing me with someone else be unbearable to you?”

“I do not share. You belong to me, wholly.”

The slap burns Claude's face. Alois strikes him again, the ring on his middle finger scraping across his cheek nearly breaking it.

“How arrogant of you to say so. It is exactly the other way around. _I_ own you, you stupid dog.”

Claude raises Alois's hand to his lips, giving the back of his fingers a slow kiss. The boy scowls, wiping his hand on his shirt.

“You disgust me,” he says, mostly likely trying to convince himself.

“If my master says so.”

Claude smirks, watching Alois leave the room. He brushes his hair away from his forehead, bringing it in order it was in before the boy disturbed it. Tartness of wine lingers on his tongue. He touches his hand to his cheek where Alois hit him, the skin still warm and buzzing with a minor sting. Another inconvenience.

Claude picks his book back up and licks his finger, turning the next page. 

 


End file.
